


Sanctuary

by winterdesu



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:44:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterdesu/pseuds/winterdesu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fushimi Saruhiko yearns for warmth.</p>
<p>(It comes in the form of Suoh Mikoto plopping onto the barstool next to his as he nurses his drink trying to keep himself together.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [charkbites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charkbites/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to the precious charkbites!  
> Twinenie is a beautiful person and deserves the best anyone can give you www  
> I didn't even ship MikoSaru but YOU HAPPENED AND NOW IM SO DEEP IN T HA NK S A LO T
> 
>  
> 
> Please do enjoy!

            The air-conditioning inside Scepter 4’s headquarters was cold as fuck, forcing Fushimi to pull the lapels of his regulation-issued coat together to shield himself from the chill better.

            He wished someone would just turn up the central temperature – the too-spacious, too-empty marble halls and high ceilings made this wretched place even draftier to stay in. Sitting still in the office was even worse – he had no way to warm himself up except squirm uncomfortably and sit on his hands every now and then.

            Fushimi found himself yearning for the cozy, relaxing warmth of HOMRA’s bar. Even when that place was empty, it never felt cold inside. Maybe it was the warm woody colours Kusanagi insisted on using, or maybe it was the gentle golden lamps that were installed behind the bar table and mounted sparingly on the walls.

            Clenching his jaw, Fushimi shot the clock on the wall a glare. Another thirty minutes. Thirty more minutes and he would be able to get out of this freezing hellhole Munakata called “office”.

            Fushimi turned his glare on the computer screen in front of him instead. He was so not doing this right now, and supposed that he could get off work on time for once. He held back a yawn and minimized the file he was working on, pulling up the list of folders in the system instead. If he did not have the motivation to get shit done, he should at least clean up some old files.

            After all, he did join Scepter 4 out of the need to feel useful to society. (Probably.)

            He was just cleaning up the second-last file when the clock rang eight times. 8 o’clock in the evening. His shift was finally fucking over. Fushimi punched the final keys to finish the mini-cleanup, shut down the computers in his office space and after announcing his departure to Munakata Reisi, speed-walked to the dorm rooms without speaking to anyone else, in a hurry to get the hell out of his uniform.

 

***

 

            Emerging in his button-down coat, dark trousers and his favourite clunky shoes, Fushimi slunk down the corridors of the headquarters with his hands shoved in his pockets, eager to get out of the hollow-feeling corridors. A colleague he barely knew stalled him on the way out, asking if he would like to join them on a casual drinking night at a nearby pub. No, Fushimi already knew where he wanted to go. He brushed off the invitation and walked out into the night.

            Even the autumn night air was warmer than the inside of the headquarters, what the fuck.

            Fushimi headed downtown – attracting no attention whatsoever out of uniform in dark, casual clothing. Just another citizen among countless others.

            The streetlights got dimmer and sparser as Fushimi drew closer to his destination, the pavement beneath his feet turning into worn-down, damp cobblestone.

            He ducked into the familiar alley to the little bar he always visited alone. The IceFire was a small dingy place, quite easy to miss if one weren’t paying attention. Even back in his HOMRA days, when Fushimi needed alone time away from everyone else, he would come here looking for solace in this quiet, infrequent bar. The bartender was alright – he greeted him, never pried nor asked excessive questions, and remembered the drink he usually ordered.

            This night, he walked in to find the bar with few other patrons and the bartender called out, “Welcome, haven’t seen you in a while.”

            Fushimi nodded his greeting and made a beeline for his usual seat – the one at the utmost right of the bar table, tucked in a corner where it was quieter, and there was at least one side where no one could sit next to, which also meant that there was a wall to lean against when he wanted.

            “The usual?” The bartender asked, leaning a little over the counter, a small amicable smile on his lips.

            Fushimi nodded his affirmation.

            “Sure. One gin and tonic with lime coming right up.” The bartender got to work while Fushimi stared into space, carefully keeping his mind blank. Tonight, as he did on numerous other evenings, he came to relieve and forget, not to mull over things.

            When the glass he ordered was set in front of him, Fushimi nodded his thanks to the bartender and swallowed one large mouthful of the drink, relishing in the burn of alcohol down his throat and the familiar, almost comforting taste in his mouth. He drank again, a little slower this time, keeping his gaze trained on the bar table, idly noting for the millionth time that it never looked as polished and looked-after as the one in HOMRA. When he laid a hand on the wood, it felt cold, too. And his iced drink had nothing to do about it. Shouldn’t the table have felt warmer because of how the drink had cooled his palms?

            HOMRA’s bar table was always a comfortable temperature to touch – never too cold or warm or grimy.

            Fushimi had to remind himself not to think about anything.

            Even The IceFire felt cold inside. Fushimi tugged at the sleeves of his coat to cover part of his palms as well, regretting his cold drink.

            Well.

            The door swung open with a quiet jingle of bells and Fushimi resolved to ignore it, until the patron that had entered sat down in the seat to his left.

            Couldn’t they sit somewhere else? Fushimi wanted to say. He opened his mouth, about to scare the creep away, when he realized who had settled down next to him. In all his hooded jacket, spiky-haired glory…

            “… M-Mikoto-san.” Fushimi fought to keep the slight tremor out of his voice and failed miserably.

            “Hey.” Mikoto gave him an idle once-over. His eyes revealed nothing but the usual lazy casualness. “I didn’t think you’d come to a place like this.” He reached into his pocket for a box of cigarettes, lighting one and taking a long drag.

            “Speak for yourself, Mikoto-san,” Fushimi returned, ignoring the thrill of fear and yearning that ran through him momentarily.

            “I came looking for you,” Mikoto said before waving the bartender over. “One beer.” He waited until the bartender had left before continuing, “Found that you come here alone sometimes.”

            Fushimi tensed. How had he known? He had never told anyone about coming here, not even Misaki back when they were joined at the hip and everything, let alone his co-workers and other members of HOMRA. _Let alone Mikoto._

            “Saw you turn into this alley a few months back.” Mikoto drank from his glass the second it was set in front of him. “It’s been a while I’ve heard about you.”

            “Who else knows?” Fushimi asked instead.

            “Probably only Kusanagi and Anna.”

            Kusanagi knew everything and Anna was… well.

            Fushimi just nodded minutely, struggling to keep the strange, vicarious bubbling in his chest in check. Mikoto was so close he could make out of the corner of his eye the individual hairs at his temples and the little stitches on his jacket and the little spots of light on the side of his chin and jaw, reflected from the shiny silver of the necklace he wore. He had used to think of his previous King as breathtaking, but this recent reassessment proved him wrong. Suoh Mikoto was magnificent. Magnificent and close and unattainable. He took another drink. So much for not thinking about anything.

            “Yata is doing alright,” Mikoto continued, heaving a silent sigh and bringing his cigarette to his lips.

            Fushimi made a sound of acknowledgement. Misaki was going to be fine. “Why did you come here to look for me?”

            Mikoto heaved another sigh, the mixed scent of his cigarette smoke and the beer he had been drinking momentarily filling the space between them. “I first found you,” he said, as though it explained everything.

            Fushimi recalled the day that had changed his life – loitering the streets after school with Misaki, that unshakable feeling of listlessness and uselessness. He had Misaki – but that was all he had. No family, no place he ever belonged to, not even for a while.

            Mikoto gave him that with a single melted soda bottle.

            “You did,” he admitted. “You gave me what I never had.” He half-consciously trailed his fingers across the front of his still-buttoned coat.

            Mikoto made him feel like he belonged, despite how fleeting it was. These feeling of wanting and being wanted… it was unlike the way Misaki dragged him around and tried to make sure both of them had fun. It was unlike the way Fushimi wanted to be Misaki’s only best friend. With the Red King, he had someone to lean on, but his only friend simply obsessed in this person whom he wanted so much to trust and find affection in.

_Misaki was never quite aware of the emotional baggage he dragged around._

            “Did I?” Mikoto had a wry, cynical half-smile on his face when Fushimi turned to look at him. “Sometimes I feel like I took what you had from you.”

            _He understood._

            “No, it wasn’t really like that,” Saruhiko’s words tumbled out of his mouth, unbidden. He clamped his jaw shut tight. It was unbecoming of him to say things like that.

            But then again, Saruhiko could never quite act like himself in front of Mikoto. In some ways, Saruhiko’s worship for Mikoto was even stronger than what Misaki had – different in so many ways, but stronger all the same.

            There was something about Mikoto that entranced him in ways Munakata Reisi and his ideals could not. Suoh Mikoto was addictive and made him _want._ Even when it was unattainable to him he still craved and searched for something similar.

            “Then what is it?” Mikoto asked. It was unlike him to keep asking. When Saruhiko glanced sideways again, Mikoto leaned in closer, half-finished cigarette dangling loosely from between his lips. His brows were furrowed and the lines around his eyes suddenly deeper and darker, making him look older than he actually was.

            Saruhiko vaguely considered dodging the question, but Mikoto beat him to it. “Just answer. I’m not going to judge.”

            _Mikoto never really judged._

“I-it’s just,” Saruhiko stumbled over the first syllable, the aching pounding of his heart too distracting for him to keep his voice steady. If there was anyone who could truly break his composure, it was Suoh Mikoto. “It’s just…”

            Mikoto sat quietly and waited.

            “It’s always so cold,” Saruhiko finally said.

            Mikoto just raised his eyebrows at Saruhiko’s iced drink.

            A chuckle escaped him, but it came out sounding hollow even to himself. His heart felt like frozen lead all of a sudden. Maybe that was why he was cold all the time.

            Mikoto sighed for the third time of the night and turned to face him completely. Saruhiko mirrored his movements automatically, so they sat facing each other, knees barely centimeters away from touching.

            “C’mon here,” Mikoto said a little roughly, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray and pushing his half-gone drink away from the side of the table.

            Saruhiko stared. _What?_

            “Come over here,” the Red King repeated.

            _What did he mean? To HOMRA?_

“Christ, kid,” Mikoto sounded exasperated now. “Think simply for once. Munakata’s rubbing off you.”

            The next thing Saruhiko knew, Mikoto’s broad, steady hands had situated themselves under his armpits, hoisting him right off the bar stool and onto his previous King’s lap to straddle him face to face.

            Saruhiko’s brain went offline.

            “Munakata’s working you too hard,” Mikoto leaned in to say quietly. His warm, cigarette-and-beer-scented breath stirred and tickled at Saruhiko’s skin. “You got even thinner.” Mikoto shifted slightly, and suddenly Saruhiko was ridiculously comfortable atop him. Blood rushed to his cheeks and he found it, like so, so long ago when they first met, impossible to meet his eyes steadily.

            Body warmth seeped from Mikoto’s lap through their trousers, from where Mikoto’s left hand had laid itself at the back of his neck. The other arm slid down to snake around his waist, keeping Saruhiko from falling off his precarious perch.

            Unable to help himself, Saruhiko rested his head on Mikoto’s shoulder, feeling a curious warmth spread through his entire being.

            Was this what that had been missing this entire time?

            Something unclenched in Saruhiko’s chest and his eyes filled. A dam inside him broke; lifelong pressure and hatred and depression he had tried so, so hard to quash down crashed forth and melted in the warmth.

            Mikoto continued to hold him close as silent tears rolled down his face, his touch warm and steady. “You need to let it out sometimes,” he said uncharacteristically softly. “I know how you are, keeping it all bottled up until you explode.” Mikoto’s arms remained secure around him as he pushed him back slightly to face him again, and Saruhiko hurriedly blinked his tears out of his eyes, but Mikoto just reached out and plucked his glasses off his face, folded them up and slipped them into his own jacket pocket.

            Saruhiko, with his blurred vision, tentatively wrapped his arms back around Mikoto, pressing his forehead into Mikoto’s broad, warm shoulder and closed his eyes.

 

***

 

            When Saruhiko awoke, he was warm all over and was feeling something he had not felt in a very long time.

            Safety.

            _Where-_

            Saruhiko opened his eyes and was greeted with the fuzzy outlines of a living room he had not seen in a while: dark red walls, white ceiling, the small gold-legged lamp standing on a dark wooden low table…

            _Mikoto’s living room._ The last time he was there, he hung out here with Misaki, Anna, Kusanagi and Totsuka, just mere days before he left the Red Clan for the Blue.

            _How long had it been? Nine months? Eleven?_

            He sat up slowly on the dark fabric sofa, noticing that he was only wearing his black long-sleeved shirt and his trousers. His feet were rid of his shoes and socks, and his button-down coat was draped over a chair near the sofa. Mikoto himself was nowhere to be seen, but he could hear the shower running in the apartment. This alone should jolt him into full alertness, but everything was just so…

            The apartment was comfortably warm and he was warm all over and it was warm even inside of him.

            It was just so pleasantly comfortable and warm and safe.

            Saruhiko laid back down and let himself fall asleep once more.

 

***

 

            He drifted awake to find himself in a bed this time. He prayed that everything that happened was not a dream, and turned over to collide with a body.

            Saruhiko’s eyes flew open. “M-Mikoto-san?” He gaped at the man lying next to him, in one of his tight-fitting white shirts and loose cotton indoor pants.

            Mikoto stirred awake slowly, blinking a few times before his gaze focused to its usual intensity – only there was something different about how he was looking at Saruhiko, burning and soft at the same time. 

            “What time is it?” Mikoto asked, yawning widely and stretching lazily. The shirt rode up a little on his abdomen to reveal a sliver of toned flesh that contracted with the movement.

            Saruhiko tore his gaze from Mikoto to sit up and squint at the small clock on the bedside table. “It’s five in the morning.” He wondered vaguely where his glasses were.

            “Damn, that’s fucking early,” Mikoto mumbled. “Do you wake at this time every day?”

            “Only when I have work.”

            “Kid, that’s practically every day.”

            If there was another thing Saruhiko hated about Scepter 4 besides their air-conditioning system, it was the fucking work hours.

            “Well, it’s work.” Saruhiko left his sentence hanging, unsure how to continue. His mind, however, raced at the thought of what must have transpired last night. All he remembered before he woke on Mikoto’s sofa earlier was sitting on his lap in The IceFire, then feeling warm, and crying and then-

            _He fell asleep on Suoh fucking Mikoto._

“Last night- ” he began, but Mikoto’s laid a hand on his jaw, making him stop from continuing. He stifled the sudden urge to lean into the warm touch like a cat.

            “Last night, you needed it,” Mikoto said instead.

            When Saruhiko met his eyes in surprise, Mikoto just smiled – not the obligatory little lip-quirk like he did when Totsuka did something stupidly endearing, but the real smile. Saruhiko could count on his fingers and toes the times he had witnessed it, and on a single hand the times it was directed towards him.

            “But I'm not one of your Clansmen anymore,” Saruhiko protested, but it sounded more like a statement rather than an argument of defense.

            “You think?” Mikoto extended an arm to beckon him to lie down next to him again. Saruhiko complied, resting his head on the pillow right next to the King, facing him.

            “I’m in Scepter 4 now,” he said anyways. “I shouldn’t be- ”

            Mikoto huffed a laugh and traced the charred HOMRA tattoo below Saruhiko’s collarbone, exposed by the low neckline of his shirt. The black insignia flared alive under his touch as though in greeting to the Red King. “It’s still here, isn’t it?” His thumb began to stroke gently at the mark, touch strangely soothing and calming.

            “It stayed even after I received the Blue Aura,” Saruhiko muttered. Mikoto’s touch on his skin was good – comforting, warm, intimate. He wished he could admit to himself how much he had craved something like this.

            _Munakta Reisi was never anything more than a father figure._

            Mikoto’s brushing slowed and his hand moved away from his collarbones, much to Saruhiko’s disappointment. But he did not expect Mikoto to circle an arm around his waist to pull him even closer.

            Saruhiko felt his face heat, and looked away from Mikoto – anywhere but meet his eyes. When Mikoto’s chest vibrated with chuckles and a hand came to press into the back of his head, Saruhiko buried his face into the juncture between Mikoto’s arm and chest to hide the flush of his cheeks instead.

            “Damn,” Mikoto said, and Saruhiko heard the smile in his tone. “You’re too cute.”

            “I’m not cute,” Saruhiko told him resolutely, still hiding his face in (nuzzling) Mikoto’s chest. “I’m the feared third-in-command Fushimi Saruhiko.”

            Mikoto laughed outright and tilted Saruhiko’s head upwards with a single warm touch. “Give yourself a little more credit, Saruhiko,” he said, and leaned in to press his lips to his.

            Saruhiko’s heart was in his throat and there was a hazy buzz at the back of his head and he could not quite concentrate on anything except the way Mikoto was sucking at his bottom lip and lightly scraping the sensitive inside of his mouth with his teeth. He kissed back fervently, moving his mouth against Mikoto’s and tentatively nipping at a corner of his lip.

            They parted briefly for air before meeting each other again halfway, their kiss deepening into warm, slick perfection that wiped Saruhiko’s mind blissfully blank.

            When they drew back again, Mikoto was looking at him with something new in his eyes, and Saruhiko was reduced to a flushing, incoherent mess that Mikoto gathered firmly but patiently in his arms, cradling him as he fought to steady his breathing. He was suddenly aware of the _situation_ he was having… downstairs, which was making itself more prominent by each passing second.

            Mikoto met his eyes, gave him a breathtaking lazy smile and proceeded to push a knee between his legs to nudge at his arousal, the playful, fond glint in his eyes growing brighter.

            Saruhiko swore his entire face turned scarlet as he let out a rather undignified whimper, realized what sound had come out of his mouth, made a strangled noise and made an attempt to untangle himself from Mikoto’s arms.

            “Stay still and let me take care of you,” Mikoto murmured into his ear, wrapping his arms securely around him and pulling him even closer. “Let me make you warm again.”

            The knee pressed against his bulge again – harder this time, rubbing at it with purpose, and Saruhiko just managed to whined weakly and clung to the front of Mikoto’s shirt as pleasure rolled and crashed into him in tidal waves. He bit his lip to hold in his noises, but Mikoto leaned in to kiss him again to make him stop, so Saruhiko groaned into the kiss as a large, broad hand crept down his hips to squeeze him none-too-gently through his trousers once, twice, and Saruhiko spilled, soiling his underwear and pants, crying out into Mikoto’s mouth.

            Mikoto smirked lazily at him as he gasped for breath, heart still pounding and sweat dampening the back of his shirt from the heat (a nice kind of heat). “Mikoto-san, you also have a problem.”

            Dark red eyebrows quirked good-naturedly. “Why don’t you go ahead and fix it?”

            Unable to help himself, Saruhiko returned the smirk and reached down to slide a hand into Mikoto’s pants.

 

***

 

            “Leaving already?” Mikoto asked from where he had draped himself over his sofa, staring at him with those golden eyes of his.

            Saruhiko pulled his button-down coat over a too-large dark shirt and too-loose trousers (both belonged to Mikoto) and tugged his socks on, left on the coffee table in the living room next to his glasses. He tucked a hand into his pocket to check if his PDA was still there.

            “Work,” he said in explanation. According to Mikoto’s clock, he was already half an hour late to work, but what they had been doing earlier was entirely worth the chewing out Awashima was going to give him once he stepped into the headquarters.

            Mikoto got up from the sofa, went over to stand in front of Saruhiko – so close their chests almost touched. Their eyes met and they automatically leaned into each other to engage in one more kiss.

            “Take care, kid. Don’t wait until you’re too cold before you come back next time.” Mikoto reached out and ruffled his hair roughly, warmly. Saruhiko stood there and endured it. If he leaned into the touch more than strictly necessary, Mikoto did not say anything.

            “Yeah,” he said in reply, stepping out of the warmth of the apartment. He refused to look back as he left the complex, hands buried deep in his (Mikoto’s) pockets.

 

***

 

            The second Saruhiko stepped into the office in full uniform, Awashima stalked right up to him and began nagging at him. “Fushimi! Tardiness is unlike you. Go to the Captain’s office to explain yourself.”

            “Yes, yes,” Saruhiko sighed and complied. And added more quietly under his breath, “Crazy woman.”

            Minutes later, sitting in seiza with Munakata in his big-ass office, watching as his Captain leisurely went about preparing his tea, Saruhiko idly wondered what he was going to say.

            “Is everything quite alright, Fushimi-kun?” Munakata finally asked, taking a dignified sip from his cup. “You often show disinterest and boredom, but you have always been impeccable at your tasks and never been late to work before.”

            Saruhiko cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “No, sir. Nothing is wrong,” he said quickly before memories of this morning could resurface and make him blush like one of those lame girls in shoujo manga.

            “Are you sure?” Munakata further inquired. “Something about you seems… different today.”

            Resisting the urge to smash his head into the floor, Saruhiko replied, “Is that so?”

            Munakata nodded once, his glasses flashing dramatically in the lighting. “Is there anything you would like to tell me?”

            _What, tell you I fell asleep on Suoh Mikoto, spent the night in his apartment and gave him a blowjob after he got me off this morning? Tell you how warm I find him, and how safe I feel in his arms?_

Smirking, Saruhiko stood up to return to his duties in the office. “No, _Dad,_ there isn’t.”

            He heard the snort of amusement even as he closed the door behind him.

 


End file.
